Chapter Five.Is Mainly about a Woman.George Macbean had, after a long, sleepless night, made up his mind.When he descended to breakfast next morning he announced to his uncle his intention of cycling into Rugby, well knowing that the rector had to give a lesson in religious instruction in the village school, and would therefore not be able to accompany him.So, in determination to meet the Frenchman face to face, to expose him and thus save Mary, even at risk of his own disgrace, he mounted and rode away down the white, dusty highroad.Instead of going into Rugby, however, he turned off at Lilbourne, and rode over the road along which they had driven the previous evening, to Orton.Eleven o’clock was certainly a rather unconventional hour for calling, but as he dismounted at the gates and walked his machine up the long, well-kept drive he had already invented an excuse. As he passed the study window he saw within a tall, elderly, grave-faced man in a suit of light grey tweed, and at once recognised that it was His Excellency himself.In answer to his ring at the door, a young English footman appeared, whereupon he asked—“Is Count Dubard at home?”“The count left this morning by the nine o’clock train.”“Left!” echoed Macbean. “And is he not returning?”“I think not, sir. He took his luggage. But I will inquire if you’ll step in a moment.”The man had conducted him across the wide old-fashioned stone hall into a pleasant morning-room which looked out upon the flower-garden and was flooded with sunshine, and after the lapse of a few moments the door reopened and there entered Mary herself, a charming figure in a fresh white blouse and linen skirt.“Why, Mr Macbean!” she cried, extending her hand gaily. “You are quite an unexpected visitor! Davis says you want to see Count Dubard. He left for Paris this morning.”“And is he not coming back?”“No, I believe not,” was her answer. “He received a letter this morning calling him to Paris at once, and dashed off to try and catch the eleven o’clock service from Charing Cross. He just had time, he said. He was anxious to see you, I think.”“Anxious to see me—why?” asked Macbean quickly.“Last night he told me that he recognised you as you were driving home with Mr Sinclair, and asked if I knew you. I, of course, told him that you had been playing tennis here. He seemed very eager to see you, and made quite a lot of inquiries about you.”Her companion was silent. The recognition had been mutual, then, and the story of the urgent letter was only an excuse of the Frenchman’s to escape from a very ugly and compromising position! His flight showed Macbean that the fellow was in fear of him, and yet he had fortunately avoided a scene between them, and a result which, in all probability, might have caused his own ruin.He looked at the bright, sweet-faced woman before him, and wondered—wondered how she could allow her affection to be attracted towards such a fellow. And yet what an admirable actor the man was! She was, alas! in ignorance of it all.How could he tell her? To explain, would only be to condemn himself. No. He resolved that for the present he must conceal his secret—for his own sake. Nevertheless how strange it was, he thought, that he should thus suddenly be drawn so closely towards her. Yesterday she was a mere acquaintance of the tea-table and the tennis-lawn, like dozens of other girls he knew, while to-day he was there as her friend and protector, the man who intended to save her and her family from the ingenious trap that he now saw was already prepared.“I’m sorry he’s gone,” he remarked in a tone of regret, adding, “I knew him long ago, and only after we had passed, my uncle told me that he was a guest here.”“He too said he wanted very much to see you,” she remarked brightly. “But you’ll meet again very soon, no doubt. I shall tell him of your inquiries when I write, for he spoke of you in the warmest terms. I did not know your address in London, so I gave him Mr Sinclair’s. I’m so sorry he’s gone,” she added. “We were to have all gone for a picnic to-day over to Kenilworth.”“And instead of that the central attraction has disappeared,” he hazarded, with a smile.“What do you mean by ‘central attraction’?” she asked, flushing slightly.“My friend Dubard, of course. I suppose what everyone says is correct, Miss Morini, and therefore I may be permitted to congratulate you upon your engagement to my friend?”“Oh, there is no engagement, I assure you,” was her reply, as she looked at him with open frankness, her cheeks betraying a slightly heightened colour. “I know there’s quite a lot of gossip about it, but the rumours are entirely without foundation,” she laughed; and as she sat there in the deep old window-seat, he recognised that, notwithstanding the refined and dignified beauty of a woman who was brilliant in a brilliant court, she still retained a soft simplicity and a virgin innocence; she was a woman whose first tears would spring from compassion, “suffering with those that she saw suffer.” She had no acquired scruples of honour, no coy concealments, no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness as they spoke together was less a quality than an instinct; like the self-folding flower, spontaneous and unconscious. Cosmopolitan life in that glare and glitter of aristocratic Rome—that circle where, from the innate distrust women have of each other, the dread of the betrayed confidence and jealous rivalry, they made no friends, and were indeed ignorant of the true meaning of friendship, where flattery and hypocrisy were the very air and atmosphere and mistrust lay in every hand-clasp and lurked in every glance—had already opened Mary Morini’s eyes to the hollow shams, the manifold hypocrisies, and the lamentable insincerity of social intimacies, and she had recoiled from it with disgust.She had retained her woman’s heart, for that was unalterable and inalienable as a part of her being; but her looks, her language, her thoughts, assumed to George Macbean, as he stood there beneath the spell of her beauty, the cast of the pure ideal.And yet she loved Jules Dubard!He bit his lip and gazed out of the old diamond panes upon the tangle of red and white roses around the lawn.Ah! how he longed to speak to her in confidence—to reveal to her the secret that now oppressed his heart until he seemed stifled by its ghastliness.But it was utterly impossible, he told himself. Now that Dubard had fled, he must find other and secret means by which to acquaint her with the truth, and at the same time shield himself from the Frenchman’s crushing revenge.He contrived to conceal the storm of emotion that tore his heart, and laughed with her about the unfounded rumours that had got abroad concerning her engagement, saying—“Of course in a rural neighbourhood like this the villagers invent all kinds of reports based upon their own surmises.”“Yes,” she declared. “They really know more about our business than we do ourselves. Only fancy! That I am engaged to marry Count Dubard—ridiculous!”“Why ridiculous?” he asked, standing before her.“Well—because it is!” she laughed, her fine eyes meeting his quite frankly. “I’m not engaged, Mr Macbean. So if you hear such a report again you can just flatly deny it.”“I shall certainly do so,” he declared, “and I shall reserve my congratulations for a future occasion.”She then turned the conversation to tennis, evidently being averse to the further discussion of the man who had courted and flattered her so assiduously—the man who was her father’s friend—and presently she took Macbean out across the lawn to introduce him to her father, who had seated himself in a long cane chair beneath the great cedar, and was reading his Italian paper.His Excellency looked up as they approached, whereupon Mary exclaimed—“This is Mr Macbean, father. He wishes to salute you. He was here yesterday playing tennis, but you were not visible.”“Very glad to meet you, sir,” exclaimed Camillo Morini, rising, grasping the young man’s hand, and raising his grey felt hat. “You know,” he explained, as he reseated himself, “I am a busy man, and so I have but little opportunity of meeting my wife’s English friends. But,” he added, in very good English, after a slight pause, as he readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked harder at the young man, “if I am not mistaken, we have met before, have we not? I seem to recognise your face.”“Yes, your Excellency,” laughed Macbean, whereupon both Mary and her father started in surprise, for it was apparent that their visitor was aware of Morini’s true position. “I had the honour of having an audience of your Excellency in Rome. I am secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason, and accompanied him to Rome on the deputation which waited upon you regarding the concession of supplying army stores in Abyssinia.”“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the Minister, suddenly interested. “I recollect quite well. You introduced the deputation, and I remember remarking how well you spoke Italian for an Englishman. Ah yes. I could not give the concession, as it had already been given to a German firm,” he added, omitting, however, the real reason, namely, because the English company had offered no secret commission. “And you are secretary to Morgan-Mason? He is a deputy, I believe.”Macbean explained that his employer sat for South-West Norfolk, and in response to other inquiries gave certain information concerning his politics and his social influence, facts of which the clever Minister made a note; for an idea had occurred to him that the monied provision-dealer whose pompousness had struck him as he had sat in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War might be one day of service to him.All through his career it had been part of Camillo Morini’s creed to note persons who might be of assistance to him, and to afterwards use their influence, or their weaknesses, to his advantage. A keen judge of character, he read men’s minds as he would an open book. He had recognised the weakness of that white-waistcoated Englishman who was struggling into society, and he resolved that one day both the Member of Parliament and his secretary should be put to their proper uses.“Mr Macbean called to see Count Dubard, who is a friend of his,” his daughter explained.“Oh, you are acquainted! How curious!” exclaimed His Excellency. “Dubard unfortunately left this morning—because he received a letter which recalled him at once to Paris. But as my valet tells me that no letters arrived for the count this morning, I can only surmise that he was tired of us here, and found country life in England too dull,” he laughed knowingly. “I’ve received the same fictitious letter myself before now, when I’ve been tired of a host and hostess.”And they all three laughed in chorus. His Excellency was of course unaware of the real reason of Jules Dubard’s flight, and the young Englishman smiled within himself as he reflected upon the staggering surprise it would cause that calm, astute man who was such a power in the south of Europe if he knew the actual truth.“Of course,” added Signor Morini, turning to the young man, “you will do me one kind favour? You will not mention to anyone here my true position. I come to England each year for rest and quiet, and if I am unknown no political significance can be attached to my summer visits—you understand?”“Certainly, your Excellency, I shall respect your wishes,” was Macbean’s reply, and a few minutes later he took leave of the great statesman and his daughter, and, full of strange conflicting reflections, rode out upon the broad highway back to Thornby.
George Macbean had, after a long, sleepless night, made up his mind.
When he descended to breakfast next morning he announced to his uncle his intention of cycling into Rugby, well knowing that the rector had to give a lesson in religious instruction in the village school, and would therefore not be able to accompany him.
So, in determination to meet the Frenchman face to face, to expose him and thus save Mary, even at risk of his own disgrace, he mounted and rode away down the white, dusty highroad.
Instead of going into Rugby, however, he turned off at Lilbourne, and rode over the road along which they had driven the previous evening, to Orton.
Eleven o’clock was certainly a rather unconventional hour for calling, but as he dismounted at the gates and walked his machine up the long, well-kept drive he had already invented an excuse. As he passed the study window he saw within a tall, elderly, grave-faced man in a suit of light grey tweed, and at once recognised that it was His Excellency himself.
In answer to his ring at the door, a young English footman appeared, whereupon he asked—
“Is Count Dubard at home?”
“The count left this morning by the nine o’clock train.”
“Left!” echoed Macbean. “And is he not returning?”
“I think not, sir. He took his luggage. But I will inquire if you’ll step in a moment.”
The man had conducted him across the wide old-fashioned stone hall into a pleasant morning-room which looked out upon the flower-garden and was flooded with sunshine, and after the lapse of a few moments the door reopened and there entered Mary herself, a charming figure in a fresh white blouse and linen skirt.
“Why, Mr Macbean!” she cried, extending her hand gaily. “You are quite an unexpected visitor! Davis says you want to see Count Dubard. He left for Paris this morning.”
“And is he not coming back?”
“No, I believe not,” was her answer. “He received a letter this morning calling him to Paris at once, and dashed off to try and catch the eleven o’clock service from Charing Cross. He just had time, he said. He was anxious to see you, I think.”
“Anxious to see me—why?” asked Macbean quickly.
“Last night he told me that he recognised you as you were driving home with Mr Sinclair, and asked if I knew you. I, of course, told him that you had been playing tennis here. He seemed very eager to see you, and made quite a lot of inquiries about you.”
Her companion was silent. The recognition had been mutual, then, and the story of the urgent letter was only an excuse of the Frenchman’s to escape from a very ugly and compromising position! His flight showed Macbean that the fellow was in fear of him, and yet he had fortunately avoided a scene between them, and a result which, in all probability, might have caused his own ruin.
He looked at the bright, sweet-faced woman before him, and wondered—wondered how she could allow her affection to be attracted towards such a fellow. And yet what an admirable actor the man was! She was, alas! in ignorance of it all.
How could he tell her? To explain, would only be to condemn himself. No. He resolved that for the present he must conceal his secret—for his own sake. Nevertheless how strange it was, he thought, that he should thus suddenly be drawn so closely towards her. Yesterday she was a mere acquaintance of the tea-table and the tennis-lawn, like dozens of other girls he knew, while to-day he was there as her friend and protector, the man who intended to save her and her family from the ingenious trap that he now saw was already prepared.
“I’m sorry he’s gone,” he remarked in a tone of regret, adding, “I knew him long ago, and only after we had passed, my uncle told me that he was a guest here.”
“He too said he wanted very much to see you,” she remarked brightly. “But you’ll meet again very soon, no doubt. I shall tell him of your inquiries when I write, for he spoke of you in the warmest terms. I did not know your address in London, so I gave him Mr Sinclair’s. I’m so sorry he’s gone,” she added. “We were to have all gone for a picnic to-day over to Kenilworth.”
“And instead of that the central attraction has disappeared,” he hazarded, with a smile.
“What do you mean by ‘central attraction’?” she asked, flushing slightly.
“My friend Dubard, of course. I suppose what everyone says is correct, Miss Morini, and therefore I may be permitted to congratulate you upon your engagement to my friend?”
“Oh, there is no engagement, I assure you,” was her reply, as she looked at him with open frankness, her cheeks betraying a slightly heightened colour. “I know there’s quite a lot of gossip about it, but the rumours are entirely without foundation,” she laughed; and as she sat there in the deep old window-seat, he recognised that, notwithstanding the refined and dignified beauty of a woman who was brilliant in a brilliant court, she still retained a soft simplicity and a virgin innocence; she was a woman whose first tears would spring from compassion, “suffering with those that she saw suffer.” She had no acquired scruples of honour, no coy concealments, no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness as they spoke together was less a quality than an instinct; like the self-folding flower, spontaneous and unconscious. Cosmopolitan life in that glare and glitter of aristocratic Rome—that circle where, from the innate distrust women have of each other, the dread of the betrayed confidence and jealous rivalry, they made no friends, and were indeed ignorant of the true meaning of friendship, where flattery and hypocrisy were the very air and atmosphere and mistrust lay in every hand-clasp and lurked in every glance—had already opened Mary Morini’s eyes to the hollow shams, the manifold hypocrisies, and the lamentable insincerity of social intimacies, and she had recoiled from it with disgust.
She had retained her woman’s heart, for that was unalterable and inalienable as a part of her being; but her looks, her language, her thoughts, assumed to George Macbean, as he stood there beneath the spell of her beauty, the cast of the pure ideal.
And yet she loved Jules Dubard!
He bit his lip and gazed out of the old diamond panes upon the tangle of red and white roses around the lawn.
Ah! how he longed to speak to her in confidence—to reveal to her the secret that now oppressed his heart until he seemed stifled by its ghastliness.
But it was utterly impossible, he told himself. Now that Dubard had fled, he must find other and secret means by which to acquaint her with the truth, and at the same time shield himself from the Frenchman’s crushing revenge.
He contrived to conceal the storm of emotion that tore his heart, and laughed with her about the unfounded rumours that had got abroad concerning her engagement, saying—
“Of course in a rural neighbourhood like this the villagers invent all kinds of reports based upon their own surmises.”
“Yes,” she declared. “They really know more about our business than we do ourselves. Only fancy! That I am engaged to marry Count Dubard—ridiculous!”
“Why ridiculous?” he asked, standing before her.
“Well—because it is!” she laughed, her fine eyes meeting his quite frankly. “I’m not engaged, Mr Macbean. So if you hear such a report again you can just flatly deny it.”
“I shall certainly do so,” he declared, “and I shall reserve my congratulations for a future occasion.”
She then turned the conversation to tennis, evidently being averse to the further discussion of the man who had courted and flattered her so assiduously—the man who was her father’s friend—and presently she took Macbean out across the lawn to introduce him to her father, who had seated himself in a long cane chair beneath the great cedar, and was reading his Italian paper.
His Excellency looked up as they approached, whereupon Mary exclaimed—
“This is Mr Macbean, father. He wishes to salute you. He was here yesterday playing tennis, but you were not visible.”
“Very glad to meet you, sir,” exclaimed Camillo Morini, rising, grasping the young man’s hand, and raising his grey felt hat. “You know,” he explained, as he reseated himself, “I am a busy man, and so I have but little opportunity of meeting my wife’s English friends. But,” he added, in very good English, after a slight pause, as he readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked harder at the young man, “if I am not mistaken, we have met before, have we not? I seem to recognise your face.”
“Yes, your Excellency,” laughed Macbean, whereupon both Mary and her father started in surprise, for it was apparent that their visitor was aware of Morini’s true position. “I had the honour of having an audience of your Excellency in Rome. I am secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason, and accompanied him to Rome on the deputation which waited upon you regarding the concession of supplying army stores in Abyssinia.”
“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the Minister, suddenly interested. “I recollect quite well. You introduced the deputation, and I remember remarking how well you spoke Italian for an Englishman. Ah yes. I could not give the concession, as it had already been given to a German firm,” he added, omitting, however, the real reason, namely, because the English company had offered no secret commission. “And you are secretary to Morgan-Mason? He is a deputy, I believe.”
Macbean explained that his employer sat for South-West Norfolk, and in response to other inquiries gave certain information concerning his politics and his social influence, facts of which the clever Minister made a note; for an idea had occurred to him that the monied provision-dealer whose pompousness had struck him as he had sat in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War might be one day of service to him.
All through his career it had been part of Camillo Morini’s creed to note persons who might be of assistance to him, and to afterwards use their influence, or their weaknesses, to his advantage. A keen judge of character, he read men’s minds as he would an open book. He had recognised the weakness of that white-waistcoated Englishman who was struggling into society, and he resolved that one day both the Member of Parliament and his secretary should be put to their proper uses.
“Mr Macbean called to see Count Dubard, who is a friend of his,” his daughter explained.
“Oh, you are acquainted! How curious!” exclaimed His Excellency. “Dubard unfortunately left this morning—because he received a letter which recalled him at once to Paris. But as my valet tells me that no letters arrived for the count this morning, I can only surmise that he was tired of us here, and found country life in England too dull,” he laughed knowingly. “I’ve received the same fictitious letter myself before now, when I’ve been tired of a host and hostess.”
And they all three laughed in chorus. His Excellency was of course unaware of the real reason of Jules Dubard’s flight, and the young Englishman smiled within himself as he reflected upon the staggering surprise it would cause that calm, astute man who was such a power in the south of Europe if he knew the actual truth.
“Of course,” added Signor Morini, turning to the young man, “you will do me one kind favour? You will not mention to anyone here my true position. I come to England each year for rest and quiet, and if I am unknown no political significance can be attached to my summer visits—you understand?”
“Certainly, your Excellency, I shall respect your wishes,” was Macbean’s reply, and a few minutes later he took leave of the great statesman and his daughter, and, full of strange conflicting reflections, rode out upon the broad highway back to Thornby.
Chapter Six.Discloses Certain Strange Facts.As Big Ben boomed forth twelve o’clock over London that same night the supper-room at the Savoy was filled to overflowing with a boisterous, well-dressed crowd of after-theatre revellers. The scene was brighter and gayer perhaps than any other scene at that hour in all the giant city. The “smart set,” that slangy, vulgar result of society’s degeneration, was as largely represented as usual; the women were fair, the jewels sparkled, the dresses were rich, and in the atmosphere was that restlessness, that perpetual craze for excitement which proves so attractive to habitués of the place.Every table in the great room was engaged, and the company was essentiallyle monde ou l’on s’amuse. But you probably have sat there amid the hurrying of the waiters, the hum of voices, the loud laughter of “smart women,” the clinking of champagne-glasses, that babel of noise drowned by the waltzes played by the Hungarian band. The air was heavy with the combined odour of a hundred perfumes, the fresh flowers drooped upon the tables, and the merry company crowded into that last half-hour all the merriment they could before the lights were lowered.At such places one sees exhibited in public the full, true, and sole omnipotence of money—how it wins the impoverished great ones to be guests of its possessor, how it purchases the smiles of the haughtiest, the favours of the most exclusive.Lazily watching that animated scene, the two men who had been guests at Orton, Dubard and Borselli, were sitting apart at a small table near the window. A bottle of Krug stood between them, and as they leaned their elbows on the table they criticised their fellow-guests, speaking in Italian, so that their remarks should not be understood by their neighbours.The band had just concluded Desgranges’ “Jalouse,” that air so reminiscent of the terrace of the Café de Paris at Monte Carlo, the leader had bowed to the company, and the waiters were busy collecting the banknotes with which the bills were in most cases paid, when the Italian drained his glass, saying—“Let us go! I’ve had enough of this! Come on to Claridge’s with me for a final cigar.”“A moment?” exclaimed Dubard, his eyes fixed across the room. “Do you see over there, just behind the column, two ladies with a stout man with grey side-whiskers? One of the ladies is in blue. What a terrible vulgarian the fellow is! I’ve been watching him.”The general glanced in the direction indicated and replied—“Oh yes, I noticed him as we came in. You’re right, my dear Jules, that fellow is a vulgarian. I met him once in Rome. His name is Morgan-Mason, a deputy and very wealthy.”“Morgan-Mason!” echoed the Frenchman, looking hard at him. “Ah!” he added, “I’ve heard of him, of course. Yes. Let us go,” and they both rose, descended by the lift, and drove in a hansom to Claridge’s.In the Under-Secretary’s elegant little sitting-room—the room wherein that afternoon he had accepted the German contractor’s bribe on Morini’s behalf—he drew forth a box of choice cigars, and they both commenced to smoke.A brief and rather painful silence fell between them. Both men had that evening exhibited towards each other a strained politeness, each knowing that the other hated him. Dubard’s defiance on the previous night had upset all the calculations of that past-master of intrigue, Angelo Borselli, whose dark eyes now darted a swift glance at his companion lolling back in the big arm-chair apparently perfectly at his ease.To Borselli’s surprise, and believing that his departure had been due to his threat on the previous night, Dubard had left Rugby for London an hour before he had, but at four o’clock that afternoon he had sent an invitation to the Carlton, suggesting that they should spend the evening together at a theatre, which they had done.There was a mystery in the Frenchman’s sudden departure from Orton, and in it Borselli suspected an ingenious move. Throughout the whole day he had reasoned within himself, finally coming to the conclusion that it was better to be friendly with such a man as Jules Dubard than to be his enemy.Dubard had seen during the evening that his companion wished to speak with him but was hesitating. At last, however, after they had smoked in silence for some minutes, the crafty Sicilian stroked his moustache and exclaimed—“I fear, my dear Jules, that I was rather hasty, perhaps rude, last night. Yet, after all, I am very glad that you took my hint and left Orton.”The Frenchman opened his eyes widely at the man’s calm audacity.“I did not take your hint in the least, I assure you,” he exclaimed, with quick indignation. “I left Orton for quite another reason.”The sallow-faced man smiled, as though quite unconscious of his companion’s anger.“Yes,” he said. “I know. You cannot deceive me.”“You know?” cried the Frenchman, starting to his feet. “What do you know? Have you invited me up here to threaten me again?”“I merely say that I know the reason why you received the letter calling you to Paris this morning,” replied the Under-Secretary in a cold, calm voice. “It was because you met and were recognised by a certain Englishman named Macbean, the secretary of that vulgar fellow we saw eating his supper half an hour ago.”Dubard’s jaw fell. He saw that by some utterly unaccountable means his enemy was aware of the real reason which compelled him to fly from Leicestershire.Was it possible that he could know the whole truth? No; it was impossible. Macbean dare not speak. Of that he felt quite assured.“Ah?” continued the general, a grim smile crossing his thin, hard features as he narrowly watched his companion. “You see I am not quite as ignorant of the past as you believe, my dear Jules.”“Nor am I!” cried the Frenchman, turning upon him savagely. “Last night you threatened me, remember!”“And to-night I have invited you here, my dear friend, to arrive at some amicable agreement that will be to our mutual advantage,” answered the clever Under-Secretary, with a suavity of manner which showed him to be a born diplomat.“Yes, I know,” answered the other in a dry, hard voice. “This is not the first time you and I have discussed matters, General Borselli. I know that if it suited you you’d betray your own mother. You have no conscience, no code of honour?”“My code of honour is exactly the same as yours,caro mio,” replied the Italian, laughing. “I try to turn all I can into profit for myself, just as you are trying to do. My maxim is ‘self first.’”“And for that reason you are plotting the downfall of Morini and the whole Ministry!”“A work in which you are actively assisting,” added the Under-Secretary.“I did not come here to be insulted,” Dubard protested.“Neither did I invite you here to pose as a censor of political morality,” responded his shrewd companion, looking straight and determinedly into his pale face. “But why should we quarrel, when it is to our mutual interests to remain friendly?”“I have not quarrelled. Last night you objected to me visiting the Morinis.”“Because I am well aware of your object.”“I admit that I intend to marry Mary,” and he removed his cigar from his mouth and examined it.“And you have also a further object in view, my dear count—one that is even more interesting,” declared Borselli, “a plan that I can very easily frustrate.”“Well, you told me that last night,” he said. “And I, on my part, frankly declare that I do not in the least fear any revelations you can make.”“Not of the affair of General Sazarac?” whispered the cunning Italian, his dark eyes fixed upon the younger man as he bent towards him. “Have you so completely forgotten certain events which, if recalled, would mean—well, they would mean that you would neither marry Morini’s daughter nor be successful in the next very ingenious trick by which you intend to make a grandcoupat the expense of my country.”At the mention of the name of General Sazarac the other’s face blanched, and holding his breath he stood glaring at the man who with raised eyebrows smiled so calmly at him. He saw that this political adventurer was aware of a certain deep, terrible secret of the past which he believed was buried for ever. His enemy’s attitude of cool confidence was sufficient to bring him at once to a sense of his insecurity.“Well?” he managed to gasp. “And what is your proposal?”“Ah, my dear friend, I am glad you are ready to listen to reason,” responded the Sicilian. “We must both face the future unshrinkingly, you know. You have your own schemes; I have mine. By acting in accord we shall succeed, but if we are enemies then we shall commit the very foolish and unpardonable error of exposing each other. I know quite well that there are certain rather unfortunate incidents regarding my own career, those disagreeable little matters of which you have knowledge, and by which you could retaliate. You see, I do not for a single moment intend to deny them. On the contrary, I frankly suggest that by an agreement of silence we can be helpful in each other’s interests. We both desire advancement, and can gain it through the medium of Morini. Are you not agreed?”Dubard, slowly convinced that without the general’s aid he must be powerless and in peril, nodded in the affirmative. He did not discern the wily man’s ulterior motive, or the secret reason of the proposed compact.“Your primary object, my dear Jules, is of course money,” the general went on. “Now, by a simple written declaration I shall absolve you from all connection with the Sazarac affair, while you, on your part, will deny my connection with that ugly little matter in Rome two years ago. Both of us will then emerge again honest and upright—models of virtue. Bygones will be bygones. I shall go my way, you will go yours; I to assist you, and you to help me—a perfectly reciprocal arrangement. I shall become Minister, while you—well, you will by a singlecoupbecome a rich man, and at the same time gain a very charming wife.”“And Morini?”The Under-Secretary elevated his shoulders and exhibited his palms.“And the Englishman Macbean?”“He is a mere fly in amber,” declared the Sicilian, with a sinister smile. “Fortune lies before us in Italy, my dear Jules—for you wealth and a wife; for me, office and distinction. By acting in accord we have nothing whatever to fear. Morini dare not disobey us, and Macbean, being a poor man, will easily fall into our power. Leave him entirely to me. I have a scheme by which he will shortly discover that his whole future depends upon his silence, and that a single indiscreet word will mean his ruin.”“And if that fails?”“Then there is still that effective method which was adopted towards Sazarac—you understand?”The Frenchman nodded, darting a swift glance at the thin-featured man before him.He understood too well.
As Big Ben boomed forth twelve o’clock over London that same night the supper-room at the Savoy was filled to overflowing with a boisterous, well-dressed crowd of after-theatre revellers. The scene was brighter and gayer perhaps than any other scene at that hour in all the giant city. The “smart set,” that slangy, vulgar result of society’s degeneration, was as largely represented as usual; the women were fair, the jewels sparkled, the dresses were rich, and in the atmosphere was that restlessness, that perpetual craze for excitement which proves so attractive to habitués of the place.
Every table in the great room was engaged, and the company was essentiallyle monde ou l’on s’amuse. But you probably have sat there amid the hurrying of the waiters, the hum of voices, the loud laughter of “smart women,” the clinking of champagne-glasses, that babel of noise drowned by the waltzes played by the Hungarian band. The air was heavy with the combined odour of a hundred perfumes, the fresh flowers drooped upon the tables, and the merry company crowded into that last half-hour all the merriment they could before the lights were lowered.
At such places one sees exhibited in public the full, true, and sole omnipotence of money—how it wins the impoverished great ones to be guests of its possessor, how it purchases the smiles of the haughtiest, the favours of the most exclusive.
Lazily watching that animated scene, the two men who had been guests at Orton, Dubard and Borselli, were sitting apart at a small table near the window. A bottle of Krug stood between them, and as they leaned their elbows on the table they criticised their fellow-guests, speaking in Italian, so that their remarks should not be understood by their neighbours.
The band had just concluded Desgranges’ “Jalouse,” that air so reminiscent of the terrace of the Café de Paris at Monte Carlo, the leader had bowed to the company, and the waiters were busy collecting the banknotes with which the bills were in most cases paid, when the Italian drained his glass, saying—
“Let us go! I’ve had enough of this! Come on to Claridge’s with me for a final cigar.”
“A moment?” exclaimed Dubard, his eyes fixed across the room. “Do you see over there, just behind the column, two ladies with a stout man with grey side-whiskers? One of the ladies is in blue. What a terrible vulgarian the fellow is! I’ve been watching him.”
The general glanced in the direction indicated and replied—
“Oh yes, I noticed him as we came in. You’re right, my dear Jules, that fellow is a vulgarian. I met him once in Rome. His name is Morgan-Mason, a deputy and very wealthy.”
“Morgan-Mason!” echoed the Frenchman, looking hard at him. “Ah!” he added, “I’ve heard of him, of course. Yes. Let us go,” and they both rose, descended by the lift, and drove in a hansom to Claridge’s.
In the Under-Secretary’s elegant little sitting-room—the room wherein that afternoon he had accepted the German contractor’s bribe on Morini’s behalf—he drew forth a box of choice cigars, and they both commenced to smoke.
A brief and rather painful silence fell between them. Both men had that evening exhibited towards each other a strained politeness, each knowing that the other hated him. Dubard’s defiance on the previous night had upset all the calculations of that past-master of intrigue, Angelo Borselli, whose dark eyes now darted a swift glance at his companion lolling back in the big arm-chair apparently perfectly at his ease.
To Borselli’s surprise, and believing that his departure had been due to his threat on the previous night, Dubard had left Rugby for London an hour before he had, but at four o’clock that afternoon he had sent an invitation to the Carlton, suggesting that they should spend the evening together at a theatre, which they had done.
There was a mystery in the Frenchman’s sudden departure from Orton, and in it Borselli suspected an ingenious move. Throughout the whole day he had reasoned within himself, finally coming to the conclusion that it was better to be friendly with such a man as Jules Dubard than to be his enemy.
Dubard had seen during the evening that his companion wished to speak with him but was hesitating. At last, however, after they had smoked in silence for some minutes, the crafty Sicilian stroked his moustache and exclaimed—
“I fear, my dear Jules, that I was rather hasty, perhaps rude, last night. Yet, after all, I am very glad that you took my hint and left Orton.”
The Frenchman opened his eyes widely at the man’s calm audacity.
“I did not take your hint in the least, I assure you,” he exclaimed, with quick indignation. “I left Orton for quite another reason.”
The sallow-faced man smiled, as though quite unconscious of his companion’s anger.
“Yes,” he said. “I know. You cannot deceive me.”
“You know?” cried the Frenchman, starting to his feet. “What do you know? Have you invited me up here to threaten me again?”
“I merely say that I know the reason why you received the letter calling you to Paris this morning,” replied the Under-Secretary in a cold, calm voice. “It was because you met and were recognised by a certain Englishman named Macbean, the secretary of that vulgar fellow we saw eating his supper half an hour ago.”
Dubard’s jaw fell. He saw that by some utterly unaccountable means his enemy was aware of the real reason which compelled him to fly from Leicestershire.
Was it possible that he could know the whole truth? No; it was impossible. Macbean dare not speak. Of that he felt quite assured.
“Ah?” continued the general, a grim smile crossing his thin, hard features as he narrowly watched his companion. “You see I am not quite as ignorant of the past as you believe, my dear Jules.”
“Nor am I!” cried the Frenchman, turning upon him savagely. “Last night you threatened me, remember!”
“And to-night I have invited you here, my dear friend, to arrive at some amicable agreement that will be to our mutual advantage,” answered the clever Under-Secretary, with a suavity of manner which showed him to be a born diplomat.
“Yes, I know,” answered the other in a dry, hard voice. “This is not the first time you and I have discussed matters, General Borselli. I know that if it suited you you’d betray your own mother. You have no conscience, no code of honour?”
“My code of honour is exactly the same as yours,caro mio,” replied the Italian, laughing. “I try to turn all I can into profit for myself, just as you are trying to do. My maxim is ‘self first.’”
“And for that reason you are plotting the downfall of Morini and the whole Ministry!”
“A work in which you are actively assisting,” added the Under-Secretary.
“I did not come here to be insulted,” Dubard protested.
“Neither did I invite you here to pose as a censor of political morality,” responded his shrewd companion, looking straight and determinedly into his pale face. “But why should we quarrel, when it is to our mutual interests to remain friendly?”
“I have not quarrelled. Last night you objected to me visiting the Morinis.”
“Because I am well aware of your object.”
“I admit that I intend to marry Mary,” and he removed his cigar from his mouth and examined it.
“And you have also a further object in view, my dear count—one that is even more interesting,” declared Borselli, “a plan that I can very easily frustrate.”
“Well, you told me that last night,” he said. “And I, on my part, frankly declare that I do not in the least fear any revelations you can make.”
“Not of the affair of General Sazarac?” whispered the cunning Italian, his dark eyes fixed upon the younger man as he bent towards him. “Have you so completely forgotten certain events which, if recalled, would mean—well, they would mean that you would neither marry Morini’s daughter nor be successful in the next very ingenious trick by which you intend to make a grandcoupat the expense of my country.”
At the mention of the name of General Sazarac the other’s face blanched, and holding his breath he stood glaring at the man who with raised eyebrows smiled so calmly at him. He saw that this political adventurer was aware of a certain deep, terrible secret of the past which he believed was buried for ever. His enemy’s attitude of cool confidence was sufficient to bring him at once to a sense of his insecurity.
“Well?” he managed to gasp. “And what is your proposal?”
“Ah, my dear friend, I am glad you are ready to listen to reason,” responded the Sicilian. “We must both face the future unshrinkingly, you know. You have your own schemes; I have mine. By acting in accord we shall succeed, but if we are enemies then we shall commit the very foolish and unpardonable error of exposing each other. I know quite well that there are certain rather unfortunate incidents regarding my own career, those disagreeable little matters of which you have knowledge, and by which you could retaliate. You see, I do not for a single moment intend to deny them. On the contrary, I frankly suggest that by an agreement of silence we can be helpful in each other’s interests. We both desire advancement, and can gain it through the medium of Morini. Are you not agreed?”
Dubard, slowly convinced that without the general’s aid he must be powerless and in peril, nodded in the affirmative. He did not discern the wily man’s ulterior motive, or the secret reason of the proposed compact.
“Your primary object, my dear Jules, is of course money,” the general went on. “Now, by a simple written declaration I shall absolve you from all connection with the Sazarac affair, while you, on your part, will deny my connection with that ugly little matter in Rome two years ago. Both of us will then emerge again honest and upright—models of virtue. Bygones will be bygones. I shall go my way, you will go yours; I to assist you, and you to help me—a perfectly reciprocal arrangement. I shall become Minister, while you—well, you will by a singlecoupbecome a rich man, and at the same time gain a very charming wife.”
“And Morini?”
The Under-Secretary elevated his shoulders and exhibited his palms.
“And the Englishman Macbean?”
“He is a mere fly in amber,” declared the Sicilian, with a sinister smile. “Fortune lies before us in Italy, my dear Jules—for you wealth and a wife; for me, office and distinction. By acting in accord we have nothing whatever to fear. Morini dare not disobey us, and Macbean, being a poor man, will easily fall into our power. Leave him entirely to me. I have a scheme by which he will shortly discover that his whole future depends upon his silence, and that a single indiscreet word will mean his ruin.”
“And if that fails?”
“Then there is still that effective method which was adopted towards Sazarac—you understand?”
The Frenchman nodded, darting a swift glance at the thin-featured man before him.
He understood too well.
Chapter Seven.An Afternoon at Thornby.The Thornby Flower-Show was held a week later in the rectory grounds, the work of arrangement chiefly devolving upon the bluff, good-natured rector and his nephew George.The little rural fête, encouraged by the richer residents, was, like other village flower-shows, the annual occasion for the cottagers to exhibit their “twelve best varieties of vegetables,” their “six best pot-plants,” the ferns from their windows, and such-like horticultural possessions. Though quite a small show, it was typically English, well managed, and therefore always attended by people from the big houses in the neighbourhood, whose gardeners themselves competed in the open classes.The judges—three gardeners from a distance—had inspected the exhibits in the marquee, and having made their awards, had, together with the committee, consisting of the local butcher and baker and two or three cottagers, all in their Sunday clothes and wearing blue rosettes, been entertained to luncheon by Mr Sinclair, when just before two o’clock the village band in uniform filed in at the garden-gate and put up their music-stands on the lawn. Then, as the church clock struck two, the villagers were admitted, each exhibitor making a rush for the tent, anxious to ascertain whether his exhibit bore the coloured card indicative of a prize.At half-past two several smart carriages had driven up, and at last came the Morini landau, containing Mr Morini and his wife and daughter Mary. Basil Sinclair and George having welcomed them at the gate, Mr Morini was conducted to a small platform on the lawn, where, after a few words of introduction from the rector, he made a short speech in fairly good English, declaring the flower-show open.Afterwards the party were conducted round the show by Sinclair, while George, of course, walked with Mary, who looked cool and sweet in a simple gown of pale grey voile, with a large grey hat to match.As they walked around the tent, close beneath the noonday sun and heavy with the odour of vegetables and perfume of flowers, she congratulated him upon the success of the show.Thornby always looked forward to the flower-show, for it was a gala day for the village; its four shops were closed, across the road at the top of the hill the committee stretched a string of gay bunting, and when dusk came the rectory garden was illuminated and there was dancing on the lawn. Thornby made every occasion an excuse for a dance, and the annualal frescoball on the rector’s lawn was the chief event of the year.It was His Excellency’s first visit to the rectory, therefore Mr Sinclair showed him the old-fashioned house, the grounds, the quaint old fifteenth-century church with its curious sculptured tombs, old carved oak and monumental brasses, while Mrs Morini, meeting several ladies of her acquaintance on the lawn, left Mary free to walk and talk with George Macbean.For a whole long week of never-ending days he had been eagerly anticipating that meeting. Never for one moment had he ceased to think of her. The sweet, fair-faced girl was in peril, he knew, and if it were possible he intended to save her. But how? Ah! that was the question.Although so deeply in love with her, he was judicious enough to save appearances, knowing well that the eyes of the whole countryside were upon him. The rustic is ever on the alert to discover defects in his master, and gossip in a village generally errs on the side of ill-nature. Therefore he was careful to appear gallant, and yet not too pressing in his attentions—a somewhat difficult feat with the strong ardour of love burning within him.They were strolling together through the quaint old flower-garden sloping gently away towards the placid river, where they found themselves alone, when Mary, turning her beautiful face to him, suddenly said—“I had no idea, Mr Macbean, that you had met my father in Rome. He was very much interested the other day, and after you had gone made quite a lot of inquiries about you.”“It was very kind of him,” was the young man’s laughing reply. “I merely went as interpreter to Mr Morgan-Mason, who had business at your Ministry of War.”Then, as they halted beneath the trees at the water’s edge, where there was a cool, refreshing breeze, she exclaimed suddenly, with a slight sigh, “Ah, how I wish we always lived in dear old England! I always look back upon my schooldays by the sea as the happiest in all my life; but now,”—and she drew a long breath again. “It is so different in Italy.”Yes. She was sad, he recognised—very sad. But why? Her young heart seemed oppressed by some hidden grief. He saw it in her fine dark eyes at the moments when she was serious. Time after time, as he spoke to her and she answered, he recognised that upon her mind rested some heavy burden which oppressed and crushed her. Her resolute yet gentle spirit, her simple, serious, domestic turn of mind distinguished her from all the other women of his acquaintance. Her reveries, her simplicity, her melancholy, her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly feminine bearing, even though that of a cosmopolitan, were the characteristics of a womanly woman—a woman who would struggle unsubdued against the strangest vicissitudes of fortune, meeting with unshaken constancy reverses and disasters such as would break the most masculine spirit.George Macbean recognised all this, and more. He saw that she was at heart a thoroughly English girl, fond of tennis, hockey, and a country life, who had been transplanted into an artificial world of glare and glitter, of empty etiquette and false friendships, and yet who, at the same time, seemed to be held transfixed by some secret upon her conscience.What was it? he wondered. Was he, after all, mistaken?The longer he remained in her company, the more mystified did he become. He knew too well the character of Jules Dubard; he knew that she was marked down a victim, and he intended to stand as her friend—her champion if need be—even at peril to himself.As she leaned over the old wooden rail at the river brink, gazing across the calm, unruffled waters, she chatted with gay vivacity about their mutual friends in the neighbourhood, and related her failure at a tennis tournament held on the previous day by a colonel’s wife on the other side of Rugby.“I suppose you often see Count Dubard in Rome,” he said at last, with some attempt at indifference. “He is in Italy a great deal nowadays, I have heard.”“He was in Rome this winter,” she answered. “He often came to my mother’s receptions.”“He has a very wide circle of acquaintances, has he not?”“Yes, mostly military men. He seems to know half of the officers in Rome. I thought I knew a good many, for crowds come to us every Thursday, but he knows far more.”“And of course your father sends him cards for the official receptions at the Ministry of War?”“Certainly—why?” she asked, glancing quickly at her companion with some surprise.“Oh, nothing,” he laughed uneasily. “I was only reflecting that he must have a very pleasant time in Italy, that’s all.”“I believe he enjoys himself,” she said. “But every foreigner who has money and is recognised by his Embassy can have a pleasant time in Rome if he likes.”“But not every foreigner enjoys the friendship of the Minister of War,” he remarked—“nor of his daughter,” he added, with a smile.Her cheeks flushed slightly.“Ah!” she protested, with one of those quaint little foreign gestures. “There you are again, Mr Macbean! Teasing me because these ignorant people here say that I’m engaged to the count. It is really too bad of you! Did I not assure you the other day that it is quite untrue?”“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, raising his panama hat, bowing as though she were an entire stranger, and yet laughing the while. “I had no intention of giving offence. Envy is permitted, however—is it not?”“Oh, it hasn’t given me offence at all?” she laughed frankly. “You see, there’s no truth in the rumour, therefore I can afford to laugh.”Her words struck him as very strange. They seemed to convey that if the engagement were really a fact it would cause her regret and annoyance.“I wanted to meet Dubard so much,” he remarked in a tone of regret. “I suppose there is no chance he will return to Orton?”“Not this summer, I think. He left us to go direct to Paris, and then I believe he goes to his estate in the Pyrenees.”“But he came here intending to spend a week or so at Orton, did he not?”“Yes; but he received a letter recalling him to France,” she said. “Father says he didn’t receive any letter. If he really didn’t, he surely could have left without telling us a lie.”Macbean smiled. How little she knew of the real character of Jules Dubard, the plausibleélégantwho was such a prominent character at the Jockey Club and in the Bois.“Very soon,” she added, in a tone of regret, “we shall have to return. My father is due back at the Ministry on the fourth of next month, and while he is there we shall go up to San Donato, our villa above Florence, and stay for the vintage, which, to me, is the best time in Italy in all the year.”“Ah yes,” he sighed. “I have always heard so. Myself I love Italy—I only wish I could escape from this country with its long dismal winters and live in sunshine always.”“You would very soon tire of it,” she assured him, looking him straight in the face with her fine eyes. “Even our bright sun gives one fever, and our blue sky becomes so monotonous that one longs for the calm of a grey English day.”“I would like to try it for a year or two,” he declared wistfully.“Then why don’t you?”He was silent, and their eyes met again.“Because I am not my own master, Miss Morini,” was his low response. “My living, such as it is, lies here in England. I am the factotum of a man who has elevated money to be his god, and I am compelled to serve him in silence and without complaint because it happens to be my lot in life.”“A rather unhappy and uncomfortable one, I should imagine,” she remarked, suddenly growing grave.“At times, yes,” was his brief reply. He did not wish to burden her with his own disappointments and misfortunes. She knew what was his position, a mere secretary, and that was sufficient. What hope could he ever have of daring to aspire to her hand? He might stand as her friend, but become her lover, never!And when, a week later, he called at Orton to wish her farewell, as his vacation was at an end and he was compelled to return to his chambers in the Temple, and to that room in Mr Morgan-Mason’s flat in Queen Anne’s Mansions, he looked in vain in her eyes for some sign of genuine regret. There was none. No, she too had realised that on account of his position love was forbidden him.“We shall meet here again, I hope, Mr Macbean—next summer,” she exclaimed, laughing airily, as she gave him her small white hand.“I hope so,” was his fervent reply in a low, meaning voice, as their hands clasped.And then, with sinking heart and full of grave apprehensions regarding her future, he bowed and left her, left her, alas! to Jules Dubard—Jules Dubard of all men!
The Thornby Flower-Show was held a week later in the rectory grounds, the work of arrangement chiefly devolving upon the bluff, good-natured rector and his nephew George.
The little rural fête, encouraged by the richer residents, was, like other village flower-shows, the annual occasion for the cottagers to exhibit their “twelve best varieties of vegetables,” their “six best pot-plants,” the ferns from their windows, and such-like horticultural possessions. Though quite a small show, it was typically English, well managed, and therefore always attended by people from the big houses in the neighbourhood, whose gardeners themselves competed in the open classes.
The judges—three gardeners from a distance—had inspected the exhibits in the marquee, and having made their awards, had, together with the committee, consisting of the local butcher and baker and two or three cottagers, all in their Sunday clothes and wearing blue rosettes, been entertained to luncheon by Mr Sinclair, when just before two o’clock the village band in uniform filed in at the garden-gate and put up their music-stands on the lawn. Then, as the church clock struck two, the villagers were admitted, each exhibitor making a rush for the tent, anxious to ascertain whether his exhibit bore the coloured card indicative of a prize.
At half-past two several smart carriages had driven up, and at last came the Morini landau, containing Mr Morini and his wife and daughter Mary. Basil Sinclair and George having welcomed them at the gate, Mr Morini was conducted to a small platform on the lawn, where, after a few words of introduction from the rector, he made a short speech in fairly good English, declaring the flower-show open.
Afterwards the party were conducted round the show by Sinclair, while George, of course, walked with Mary, who looked cool and sweet in a simple gown of pale grey voile, with a large grey hat to match.
As they walked around the tent, close beneath the noonday sun and heavy with the odour of vegetables and perfume of flowers, she congratulated him upon the success of the show.
Thornby always looked forward to the flower-show, for it was a gala day for the village; its four shops were closed, across the road at the top of the hill the committee stretched a string of gay bunting, and when dusk came the rectory garden was illuminated and there was dancing on the lawn. Thornby made every occasion an excuse for a dance, and the annualal frescoball on the rector’s lawn was the chief event of the year.
It was His Excellency’s first visit to the rectory, therefore Mr Sinclair showed him the old-fashioned house, the grounds, the quaint old fifteenth-century church with its curious sculptured tombs, old carved oak and monumental brasses, while Mrs Morini, meeting several ladies of her acquaintance on the lawn, left Mary free to walk and talk with George Macbean.
For a whole long week of never-ending days he had been eagerly anticipating that meeting. Never for one moment had he ceased to think of her. The sweet, fair-faced girl was in peril, he knew, and if it were possible he intended to save her. But how? Ah! that was the question.
Although so deeply in love with her, he was judicious enough to save appearances, knowing well that the eyes of the whole countryside were upon him. The rustic is ever on the alert to discover defects in his master, and gossip in a village generally errs on the side of ill-nature. Therefore he was careful to appear gallant, and yet not too pressing in his attentions—a somewhat difficult feat with the strong ardour of love burning within him.
They were strolling together through the quaint old flower-garden sloping gently away towards the placid river, where they found themselves alone, when Mary, turning her beautiful face to him, suddenly said—
“I had no idea, Mr Macbean, that you had met my father in Rome. He was very much interested the other day, and after you had gone made quite a lot of inquiries about you.”
“It was very kind of him,” was the young man’s laughing reply. “I merely went as interpreter to Mr Morgan-Mason, who had business at your Ministry of War.”
Then, as they halted beneath the trees at the water’s edge, where there was a cool, refreshing breeze, she exclaimed suddenly, with a slight sigh, “Ah, how I wish we always lived in dear old England! I always look back upon my schooldays by the sea as the happiest in all my life; but now,”—and she drew a long breath again. “It is so different in Italy.”
Yes. She was sad, he recognised—very sad. But why? Her young heart seemed oppressed by some hidden grief. He saw it in her fine dark eyes at the moments when she was serious. Time after time, as he spoke to her and she answered, he recognised that upon her mind rested some heavy burden which oppressed and crushed her. Her resolute yet gentle spirit, her simple, serious, domestic turn of mind distinguished her from all the other women of his acquaintance. Her reveries, her simplicity, her melancholy, her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly feminine bearing, even though that of a cosmopolitan, were the characteristics of a womanly woman—a woman who would struggle unsubdued against the strangest vicissitudes of fortune, meeting with unshaken constancy reverses and disasters such as would break the most masculine spirit.
George Macbean recognised all this, and more. He saw that she was at heart a thoroughly English girl, fond of tennis, hockey, and a country life, who had been transplanted into an artificial world of glare and glitter, of empty etiquette and false friendships, and yet who, at the same time, seemed to be held transfixed by some secret upon her conscience.
What was it? he wondered. Was he, after all, mistaken?
The longer he remained in her company, the more mystified did he become. He knew too well the character of Jules Dubard; he knew that she was marked down a victim, and he intended to stand as her friend—her champion if need be—even at peril to himself.
As she leaned over the old wooden rail at the river brink, gazing across the calm, unruffled waters, she chatted with gay vivacity about their mutual friends in the neighbourhood, and related her failure at a tennis tournament held on the previous day by a colonel’s wife on the other side of Rugby.
“I suppose you often see Count Dubard in Rome,” he said at last, with some attempt at indifference. “He is in Italy a great deal nowadays, I have heard.”
“He was in Rome this winter,” she answered. “He often came to my mother’s receptions.”
“He has a very wide circle of acquaintances, has he not?”
“Yes, mostly military men. He seems to know half of the officers in Rome. I thought I knew a good many, for crowds come to us every Thursday, but he knows far more.”
“And of course your father sends him cards for the official receptions at the Ministry of War?”
“Certainly—why?” she asked, glancing quickly at her companion with some surprise.
“Oh, nothing,” he laughed uneasily. “I was only reflecting that he must have a very pleasant time in Italy, that’s all.”
“I believe he enjoys himself,” she said. “But every foreigner who has money and is recognised by his Embassy can have a pleasant time in Rome if he likes.”
“But not every foreigner enjoys the friendship of the Minister of War,” he remarked—“nor of his daughter,” he added, with a smile.
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
“Ah!” she protested, with one of those quaint little foreign gestures. “There you are again, Mr Macbean! Teasing me because these ignorant people here say that I’m engaged to the count. It is really too bad of you! Did I not assure you the other day that it is quite untrue?”
“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, raising his panama hat, bowing as though she were an entire stranger, and yet laughing the while. “I had no intention of giving offence. Envy is permitted, however—is it not?”
“Oh, it hasn’t given me offence at all?” she laughed frankly. “You see, there’s no truth in the rumour, therefore I can afford to laugh.”
Her words struck him as very strange. They seemed to convey that if the engagement were really a fact it would cause her regret and annoyance.
“I wanted to meet Dubard so much,” he remarked in a tone of regret. “I suppose there is no chance he will return to Orton?”
“Not this summer, I think. He left us to go direct to Paris, and then I believe he goes to his estate in the Pyrenees.”
“But he came here intending to spend a week or so at Orton, did he not?”
“Yes; but he received a letter recalling him to France,” she said. “Father says he didn’t receive any letter. If he really didn’t, he surely could have left without telling us a lie.”
Macbean smiled. How little she knew of the real character of Jules Dubard, the plausibleélégantwho was such a prominent character at the Jockey Club and in the Bois.
“Very soon,” she added, in a tone of regret, “we shall have to return. My father is due back at the Ministry on the fourth of next month, and while he is there we shall go up to San Donato, our villa above Florence, and stay for the vintage, which, to me, is the best time in Italy in all the year.”
“Ah yes,” he sighed. “I have always heard so. Myself I love Italy—I only wish I could escape from this country with its long dismal winters and live in sunshine always.”
“You would very soon tire of it,” she assured him, looking him straight in the face with her fine eyes. “Even our bright sun gives one fever, and our blue sky becomes so monotonous that one longs for the calm of a grey English day.”
“I would like to try it for a year or two,” he declared wistfully.
“Then why don’t you?”
He was silent, and their eyes met again.
“Because I am not my own master, Miss Morini,” was his low response. “My living, such as it is, lies here in England. I am the factotum of a man who has elevated money to be his god, and I am compelled to serve him in silence and without complaint because it happens to be my lot in life.”
“A rather unhappy and uncomfortable one, I should imagine,” she remarked, suddenly growing grave.
“At times, yes,” was his brief reply. He did not wish to burden her with his own disappointments and misfortunes. She knew what was his position, a mere secretary, and that was sufficient. What hope could he ever have of daring to aspire to her hand? He might stand as her friend, but become her lover, never!
And when, a week later, he called at Orton to wish her farewell, as his vacation was at an end and he was compelled to return to his chambers in the Temple, and to that room in Mr Morgan-Mason’s flat in Queen Anne’s Mansions, he looked in vain in her eyes for some sign of genuine regret. There was none. No, she too had realised that on account of his position love was forbidden him.
“We shall meet here again, I hope, Mr Macbean—next summer,” she exclaimed, laughing airily, as she gave him her small white hand.
“I hope so,” was his fervent reply in a low, meaning voice, as their hands clasped.
And then, with sinking heart and full of grave apprehensions regarding her future, he bowed and left her, left her, alas! to Jules Dubard—Jules Dubard of all men!
Chapter Eight.The Traitor.Camillo Morini stood at the big window of his private cabinet in the Ministry of War at Rome, gazing down upon the silent courtyard, white in the glaring heat of afternoon.He was dressed in a cool suit of clean white linen, as is the summer mode in the South, and as he stood gazing out at the sentry standing in his box motionless as a statue, he calmly smoked his after-luncheon cigar—a good Havanna he had brought from England. The man who was so constantly juggling with a nation’s future pressed his lips together, and afterwards heaved a big sigh—a sigh that echoed through the big, lofty room.The Minister’s cabinet, like all the rooms in the new War Office, was big and bare, with a marble floor for summer, and a high stove of white terra-cotta with broad brass bands for winter. Upon the ceiling were fine modern frescoes; the walls, however, unlike those of the other rooms, which were mostly colour-washed, were papered dark red, and the heavy furniture was covered with thick red plush; while in one corner was a handsome marble bust of Victor Emmanuel upon a pedestal, and above hung a large framed portrait of King Umberto, the reigning sovereign, and a huge shield bearing the arms of Italy. In the centre stood a huge writing-table of carved walnut, with a great high-backed chair, the seat of the man who ruled the army of Italy.The doors were double, with a wide space between, so that the messenger in uniform who lounged outside should overhear nothing, while so hemmed in by secretaries was the Minister that he was as difficult of approach as the very sovereign himself.That huge square block of new stuccoed buildings, with long corridors, enormous clerks’ room, and big courtyard, the echoes of which were awakened day and night by the regular tramp of the sentries and the clank of arms, was at that moment a veritable hive of industry—for of all the government departments in Rome, the War Office, with its tremendous responsibilities, is the best conducted.His Excellency was reflecting upon something that Angelo Borselli, the Under-Secretary, had told him while they had been lunching together at the club. He recognised the seriousness of it all, and he sighed in consequence.Presently, while his eyes were still fixed upon that sentry erect and motionless in his box, upon which the sun beat down so fiercely, there was a rap at the door, and there entered the uniformed messenger who had been on guard outside, who saluted, saying—“General Arturo Valentini of the 6th Alpine Regiment, together with a captain of the same regiment, crave an audience with your Excellency.”“What is the captain’s name?” grunted the Minister of War.The messenger looked at the card that had been given him, and replied—“Captain Felice Solaro, your Excellency.”“Ah! Solaro! Solaro!” exclaimed Morini, tossing away his cigar. “Show them in.”And as he passed before the tiny mirror he glanced at himself to adjust his cravat and see that not a single hair was awry—a habit of his before giving audience.A few moments later two men in uniform were ushered in. The general, short of stature, white-haired, with firm military step, a red face, and white moustache, saluted and stood at attention as he entered the Minister’s presence; while the captain, a smart-looking, dark-haired man of forty, followed his superior’s example, yet as Morini darted a quick glance at him, he visibly trembled at it. The captain’s face was white as death, and as he stood for a moment in the awkward silence that followed, his gloved fingers chafed his sword hilt nervously.“Well, general?” inquired the Minister, who had never before met that distinguished officer, but whom he, of course, knew well by repute. Valentini had been Inspector-General of Genio fifteen years ago, and had served Italy well in those fierce campaigns of the early sixties, as his row of medals and decorations showed. “Why do you wish for audience?” he asked sharply.“Your Excellency, I am here to crave for a more merciful sentence upon this man,” the kindly old officer answered, turning to the captain, who stood with head bowed at his side. “I am his commanding officer, and in justice I wish to intercede for him.”The Minister raised his eyes in surprise, and asked—“And what is this man’s name, pray?”“I am Felice Solaro, your Excellency,” faltered the captain, as though fearing to pronounce his own name. “My general has travelled with me from Piedmont to obtain audience and to implore your mercy.”“Solaro!” echoed the Minister, looking straight at him. “Ah yes, I remember!” Then turning to the general, Morini added in a hard, impatient tone—“I cannot see why you should have troubled yourself to come to Rome on such an errand—and without leave too! I thought this man was under arrest? Is this the way you execute military justice in the north?”“I took it upon myself to bring the captain here,” was the fine old officer’s answer.“And he wears his sword, I see!” remarked the Minister, with a sneer. “I suppose you have taken it upon yourself to give it back to him—eh?”“I returned him his sword temporarily, your Excellency, in order that during our journey here no one should recognise him as the man who has been sentenced, and further, in order that he should stand before you in the full possession of his rights as an officer, and ask your leave to explain.”“I have no time to hear any explanations from men who have been condemned by court-martial, General Valentini. It is your duty to hear his excuses—not mine. The whole matter is quite clear. I have had the papers before me, and have gone through them carefully. They were sent to me in England. And if you ask me my private opinion, general, I think that dismissal from the army and fifteen years’ imprisonment is a very light sentence upon a traitor. Had I been on the court-martial I should have given a life sentence.”“But, your Excellency!” gasped the unhappy captain, his face blanched, his hands trembling, “I am innocent. I am the victim of some clever conspiracy, by which the real culprit has shielded himself. I had no chance of defending myself at the court-martial, for—”“Silence!” cried the Minister. “You have been tried and found guilty of treason against your king and country. The evidence is as plain as the light of day, and yet you deny your guilt?”“I do deny it,” declared the unhappy captain. “They refused to hear my explanation.”“That is true, your Excellency,” interposed the general. “The court sat for four days in Turin with closed doors, and as three of the officers composing it were due to go on their annual leave, the sitting on the fourth day was terminated hurriedly, sentence was given, and sent to you for confirmation. Your Excellency has confirmed it, therefore Captain Solaro has no appeal except to yourself.”“You, as his commanding officer, were not a member of the court?”“No, your Excellency.”“Then why should you interest yourself in a matter which does not concern you, pray?” inquired Morini impatiently.“Because this unfortunate affair reflects upon the honour of my command.”“Oh, of course. It is all very well to speak heroically after the event!” exclaimed the Minister of War, with a hard, dry laugh. “The mischief has been done, and one of your officers has been found guilty of treason—of selling a military secret to a foreign power.”“Found guilty, yes,” exclaimed the unfortunate captain. “But innocent, nevertheless!”Morini shrugged his shoulders, and seating himself in his writing-chair took some official memoranda from a drawer in the table. Then, having glanced quickly at it, he said—“The facts are quite plain. This man, Felice Solaro, of the 6th Alpine Regiment, is in garrison on Mont Gran Paradiso in the Alps, where on the other side of the mountain, at Tresenta, we have recently constructed a new fortress, for the protection of the frontier at that point. This fortress, which is sunk out of sight, has taken four and a half years to construct, and was only completed and garrisoned six months ago. It commands the Oreo valley, which, in the event of hostilities with France, would be one of the most vulnerable points on the frontier. French agents have, time after time, endeavoured to learn something of our works up there; but so well has the spot been guarded that only two agents have succeeded in obtaining sight of it, and both were arrested and are now in prison as spies. And yet, in spite of all this, there was found in Solaro’s quarters by an orderly fragments of a curious letter in French addressed to ‘Mon cher Felice,’ acknowledging receipt of the plans, thanking him, and enclosing the sum agreed upon in Italian banknotes.”“The letter was never addressed to me,” the captain cried. “I know nothing of it. The whole thing was a conspiracy to ruin and disgrace me!”“But there are other facts supplied by the secret service,” went on the Minister in a dry, hard tone, turning to the accused man. “You spent your last leave in Paris; you were seen by one of our agents in the company of a man well-known to be a French spy. You went to various places of amusement with him, drank with him at the Hôtel Chatham, at the Grand Café, and other places, and,” added Morini, looking him straight in the face, “and what is more, he lent you money. Do you deny that?”The captain stood glaring at his accuser, utterly dumbfounded. This latter truth had not been given in evidence against him. The Minister therefore held certain secret information of which he was in entire ignorance. He had been watched in Paris! He held his breath, and was silent. Even the general looked at him in surprise and suspicion.“No,” he answered hoarsely at last, “I do not deny it. The man did lend me money.”“For what purpose—eh? In order to obtain from you in secret the plans of the Tresenta fortress,” declared His Excellency. “French agents do not lend money to Italian officers without somequid pro quo.”“I did not know that the fellow was a spy until afterwards.”“Until it was too late, I suppose. You were entrapped, so you were compelled to give the plans to France. Now admit it.”“I assert that I am entirely innocent,” he declared. “It is true that I spent my leave in Paris, where I met a man who called himself Georges Latrobe, an engineer from Bordeaux, who spoke Italian I ran short of cash, and he lent me five hundred francs, which I repaid to him ten days after my return to barracks. It was only on the last day when I was with him that my suspicions were aroused regarding his real character. We were sitting together in the Café Terminus, when he turned the conversation to our defences on the Alpine frontier, expressing a desire to visit me at Gran Paradiso. I at once told him that the admission of strangers within the military zone was prohibited. But he pressed me, and even went so far as to offer me a receipt for the money he had lent me, together with a like sum if I could gain him admission, in order, so he said, to see the latest feat of Italian engineering. But my suspicions were at once aroused. I told him that his suggestion was impossible, and from that day I have not seen him.”“But you furnished him with plans and details of the fortifications?” snapped the Minister of War.“I did not,” denied the captain stoutly. “I admit that I very narrowly escaped falling into a clever trap, but fortunately saved myself. If the plans have actually been furnished, then they have been given by someone else, not by me; and that letter was placed in my quarters in order to divert suspicion from the guilty person.”“Ah, a very ingenious story!” the Minister laughed incredulously. “You admit being friendly with the spy?”“I admit all that is the truth, your Excellency, but I flatly deny that I am a traitor to my king,” was the accused man’s quick, response.“But you see you were watched while on leave,” the Minister went on, referring to his report. “On your return from Paris you travelled by way of Milan to Bologna, where you visited a certain Signora Nodari and her daughter.”“The latter was my betrothed,” the unhappy man explained.“Exactly. Then how do you account for the agent Latrobe calling upon her a month later and obtaining from her a packet which she had received by post from the garrison of Gran Paradiso? It was only afterwards that this fact was known, otherwise the spy would not have escaped from Italy.”Captain Solaro stood rigid.“Have you really proof of this, your Excellency?” he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. “I—I cannot think that she would betray me.”“Ah! Never trust a woman,” observed the Minister, with a grim smile. “She has made a statement—a statement which proves everything.”“Which proves?” he cried wildly. “Which proves I am innocent.”“No,” declared Morini calmly. “Which proves that you are guilty.”“Ah, but let me tell you how—”“No more!” cried Morini, rising with quick anger from his chair and snapping his fingers in impatience. “You have been found guilty and sentenced, and I think that even your general, after your own admissions, is now convinced of his injudicious and ridiculous attempt to shield a traitor.”“Ah!” cried the unfortunate man, hot tears springing to his eyes, “I see now how I have been betrayed—and I know by whom!”“I have no further time to waste upon hearing any counter-charges,” abruptly answered the Minister. “From to-day you are dismissed the army in disgrace. My decree will appear in to-night’sGazette, and, General Valentini,” he added meaningly, turning to the stern old officer who had writhed beneath the civilian’s rebuke, “convey your prisoner back to Turin, and do not again become the gaoler of a traitor.”“You absolutely refuse to hear me further, then!” cried the captain in wild desperation, dismayed to find that all attempt to clear his character had failed.“I do.”The accused man with set teeth drew his sword, and with one quick wrench across his knee broke the gleaming blade and cast it ringing upon the marble floor.“Take my sword!” he cried, drawing himself up to the salute. “Take my honour—take my life! But you—even you, Camillo Morini—cannot condemn me with justice! One day you shall know that I am innocent—you hear!—innocent!”And with firm tread he strode out of the Minister’s private room, followed by his general, who merely saluted in stiff silence, his scabbard trailing upon the marble.
Camillo Morini stood at the big window of his private cabinet in the Ministry of War at Rome, gazing down upon the silent courtyard, white in the glaring heat of afternoon.
He was dressed in a cool suit of clean white linen, as is the summer mode in the South, and as he stood gazing out at the sentry standing in his box motionless as a statue, he calmly smoked his after-luncheon cigar—a good Havanna he had brought from England. The man who was so constantly juggling with a nation’s future pressed his lips together, and afterwards heaved a big sigh—a sigh that echoed through the big, lofty room.
The Minister’s cabinet, like all the rooms in the new War Office, was big and bare, with a marble floor for summer, and a high stove of white terra-cotta with broad brass bands for winter. Upon the ceiling were fine modern frescoes; the walls, however, unlike those of the other rooms, which were mostly colour-washed, were papered dark red, and the heavy furniture was covered with thick red plush; while in one corner was a handsome marble bust of Victor Emmanuel upon a pedestal, and above hung a large framed portrait of King Umberto, the reigning sovereign, and a huge shield bearing the arms of Italy. In the centre stood a huge writing-table of carved walnut, with a great high-backed chair, the seat of the man who ruled the army of Italy.
The doors were double, with a wide space between, so that the messenger in uniform who lounged outside should overhear nothing, while so hemmed in by secretaries was the Minister that he was as difficult of approach as the very sovereign himself.
That huge square block of new stuccoed buildings, with long corridors, enormous clerks’ room, and big courtyard, the echoes of which were awakened day and night by the regular tramp of the sentries and the clank of arms, was at that moment a veritable hive of industry—for of all the government departments in Rome, the War Office, with its tremendous responsibilities, is the best conducted.
His Excellency was reflecting upon something that Angelo Borselli, the Under-Secretary, had told him while they had been lunching together at the club. He recognised the seriousness of it all, and he sighed in consequence.
Presently, while his eyes were still fixed upon that sentry erect and motionless in his box, upon which the sun beat down so fiercely, there was a rap at the door, and there entered the uniformed messenger who had been on guard outside, who saluted, saying—
“General Arturo Valentini of the 6th Alpine Regiment, together with a captain of the same regiment, crave an audience with your Excellency.”
“What is the captain’s name?” grunted the Minister of War.
The messenger looked at the card that had been given him, and replied—
“Captain Felice Solaro, your Excellency.”
“Ah! Solaro! Solaro!” exclaimed Morini, tossing away his cigar. “Show them in.”
And as he passed before the tiny mirror he glanced at himself to adjust his cravat and see that not a single hair was awry—a habit of his before giving audience.
A few moments later two men in uniform were ushered in. The general, short of stature, white-haired, with firm military step, a red face, and white moustache, saluted and stood at attention as he entered the Minister’s presence; while the captain, a smart-looking, dark-haired man of forty, followed his superior’s example, yet as Morini darted a quick glance at him, he visibly trembled at it. The captain’s face was white as death, and as he stood for a moment in the awkward silence that followed, his gloved fingers chafed his sword hilt nervously.
“Well, general?” inquired the Minister, who had never before met that distinguished officer, but whom he, of course, knew well by repute. Valentini had been Inspector-General of Genio fifteen years ago, and had served Italy well in those fierce campaigns of the early sixties, as his row of medals and decorations showed. “Why do you wish for audience?” he asked sharply.
“Your Excellency, I am here to crave for a more merciful sentence upon this man,” the kindly old officer answered, turning to the captain, who stood with head bowed at his side. “I am his commanding officer, and in justice I wish to intercede for him.”
The Minister raised his eyes in surprise, and asked—
“And what is this man’s name, pray?”
“I am Felice Solaro, your Excellency,” faltered the captain, as though fearing to pronounce his own name. “My general has travelled with me from Piedmont to obtain audience and to implore your mercy.”
“Solaro!” echoed the Minister, looking straight at him. “Ah yes, I remember!” Then turning to the general, Morini added in a hard, impatient tone—
“I cannot see why you should have troubled yourself to come to Rome on such an errand—and without leave too! I thought this man was under arrest? Is this the way you execute military justice in the north?”
“I took it upon myself to bring the captain here,” was the fine old officer’s answer.
“And he wears his sword, I see!” remarked the Minister, with a sneer. “I suppose you have taken it upon yourself to give it back to him—eh?”
“I returned him his sword temporarily, your Excellency, in order that during our journey here no one should recognise him as the man who has been sentenced, and further, in order that he should stand before you in the full possession of his rights as an officer, and ask your leave to explain.”
“I have no time to hear any explanations from men who have been condemned by court-martial, General Valentini. It is your duty to hear his excuses—not mine. The whole matter is quite clear. I have had the papers before me, and have gone through them carefully. They were sent to me in England. And if you ask me my private opinion, general, I think that dismissal from the army and fifteen years’ imprisonment is a very light sentence upon a traitor. Had I been on the court-martial I should have given a life sentence.”
“But, your Excellency!” gasped the unhappy captain, his face blanched, his hands trembling, “I am innocent. I am the victim of some clever conspiracy, by which the real culprit has shielded himself. I had no chance of defending myself at the court-martial, for—”
“Silence!” cried the Minister. “You have been tried and found guilty of treason against your king and country. The evidence is as plain as the light of day, and yet you deny your guilt?”
“I do deny it,” declared the unhappy captain. “They refused to hear my explanation.”
“That is true, your Excellency,” interposed the general. “The court sat for four days in Turin with closed doors, and as three of the officers composing it were due to go on their annual leave, the sitting on the fourth day was terminated hurriedly, sentence was given, and sent to you for confirmation. Your Excellency has confirmed it, therefore Captain Solaro has no appeal except to yourself.”
“You, as his commanding officer, were not a member of the court?”
“No, your Excellency.”
“Then why should you interest yourself in a matter which does not concern you, pray?” inquired Morini impatiently.
“Because this unfortunate affair reflects upon the honour of my command.”
“Oh, of course. It is all very well to speak heroically after the event!” exclaimed the Minister of War, with a hard, dry laugh. “The mischief has been done, and one of your officers has been found guilty of treason—of selling a military secret to a foreign power.”
“Found guilty, yes,” exclaimed the unfortunate captain. “But innocent, nevertheless!”
Morini shrugged his shoulders, and seating himself in his writing-chair took some official memoranda from a drawer in the table. Then, having glanced quickly at it, he said—
“The facts are quite plain. This man, Felice Solaro, of the 6th Alpine Regiment, is in garrison on Mont Gran Paradiso in the Alps, where on the other side of the mountain, at Tresenta, we have recently constructed a new fortress, for the protection of the frontier at that point. This fortress, which is sunk out of sight, has taken four and a half years to construct, and was only completed and garrisoned six months ago. It commands the Oreo valley, which, in the event of hostilities with France, would be one of the most vulnerable points on the frontier. French agents have, time after time, endeavoured to learn something of our works up there; but so well has the spot been guarded that only two agents have succeeded in obtaining sight of it, and both were arrested and are now in prison as spies. And yet, in spite of all this, there was found in Solaro’s quarters by an orderly fragments of a curious letter in French addressed to ‘Mon cher Felice,’ acknowledging receipt of the plans, thanking him, and enclosing the sum agreed upon in Italian banknotes.”
“The letter was never addressed to me,” the captain cried. “I know nothing of it. The whole thing was a conspiracy to ruin and disgrace me!”
“But there are other facts supplied by the secret service,” went on the Minister in a dry, hard tone, turning to the accused man. “You spent your last leave in Paris; you were seen by one of our agents in the company of a man well-known to be a French spy. You went to various places of amusement with him, drank with him at the Hôtel Chatham, at the Grand Café, and other places, and,” added Morini, looking him straight in the face, “and what is more, he lent you money. Do you deny that?”
The captain stood glaring at his accuser, utterly dumbfounded. This latter truth had not been given in evidence against him. The Minister therefore held certain secret information of which he was in entire ignorance. He had been watched in Paris! He held his breath, and was silent. Even the general looked at him in surprise and suspicion.
“No,” he answered hoarsely at last, “I do not deny it. The man did lend me money.”
“For what purpose—eh? In order to obtain from you in secret the plans of the Tresenta fortress,” declared His Excellency. “French agents do not lend money to Italian officers without somequid pro quo.”
“I did not know that the fellow was a spy until afterwards.”
“Until it was too late, I suppose. You were entrapped, so you were compelled to give the plans to France. Now admit it.”
“I assert that I am entirely innocent,” he declared. “It is true that I spent my leave in Paris, where I met a man who called himself Georges Latrobe, an engineer from Bordeaux, who spoke Italian I ran short of cash, and he lent me five hundred francs, which I repaid to him ten days after my return to barracks. It was only on the last day when I was with him that my suspicions were aroused regarding his real character. We were sitting together in the Café Terminus, when he turned the conversation to our defences on the Alpine frontier, expressing a desire to visit me at Gran Paradiso. I at once told him that the admission of strangers within the military zone was prohibited. But he pressed me, and even went so far as to offer me a receipt for the money he had lent me, together with a like sum if I could gain him admission, in order, so he said, to see the latest feat of Italian engineering. But my suspicions were at once aroused. I told him that his suggestion was impossible, and from that day I have not seen him.”
“But you furnished him with plans and details of the fortifications?” snapped the Minister of War.
“I did not,” denied the captain stoutly. “I admit that I very narrowly escaped falling into a clever trap, but fortunately saved myself. If the plans have actually been furnished, then they have been given by someone else, not by me; and that letter was placed in my quarters in order to divert suspicion from the guilty person.”
“Ah, a very ingenious story!” the Minister laughed incredulously. “You admit being friendly with the spy?”
“I admit all that is the truth, your Excellency, but I flatly deny that I am a traitor to my king,” was the accused man’s quick, response.
“But you see you were watched while on leave,” the Minister went on, referring to his report. “On your return from Paris you travelled by way of Milan to Bologna, where you visited a certain Signora Nodari and her daughter.”
“The latter was my betrothed,” the unhappy man explained.
“Exactly. Then how do you account for the agent Latrobe calling upon her a month later and obtaining from her a packet which she had received by post from the garrison of Gran Paradiso? It was only afterwards that this fact was known, otherwise the spy would not have escaped from Italy.”
Captain Solaro stood rigid.
“Have you really proof of this, your Excellency?” he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. “I—I cannot think that she would betray me.”
“Ah! Never trust a woman,” observed the Minister, with a grim smile. “She has made a statement—a statement which proves everything.”
“Which proves?” he cried wildly. “Which proves I am innocent.”
“No,” declared Morini calmly. “Which proves that you are guilty.”
“Ah, but let me tell you how—”
“No more!” cried Morini, rising with quick anger from his chair and snapping his fingers in impatience. “You have been found guilty and sentenced, and I think that even your general, after your own admissions, is now convinced of his injudicious and ridiculous attempt to shield a traitor.”
“Ah!” cried the unfortunate man, hot tears springing to his eyes, “I see now how I have been betrayed—and I know by whom!”
“I have no further time to waste upon hearing any counter-charges,” abruptly answered the Minister. “From to-day you are dismissed the army in disgrace. My decree will appear in to-night’sGazette, and, General Valentini,” he added meaningly, turning to the stern old officer who had writhed beneath the civilian’s rebuke, “convey your prisoner back to Turin, and do not again become the gaoler of a traitor.”
“You absolutely refuse to hear me further, then!” cried the captain in wild desperation, dismayed to find that all attempt to clear his character had failed.
“I do.”
The accused man with set teeth drew his sword, and with one quick wrench across his knee broke the gleaming blade and cast it ringing upon the marble floor.
“Take my sword!” he cried, drawing himself up to the salute. “Take my honour—take my life! But you—even you, Camillo Morini—cannot condemn me with justice! One day you shall know that I am innocent—you hear!—innocent!”
And with firm tread he strode out of the Minister’s private room, followed by his general, who merely saluted in stiff silence, his scabbard trailing upon the marble.